Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job on hand—is he?”
“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t perfect.”
Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.”
They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.”
“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all at sea with that well of his.”
“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word, and a little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be along yet—not quite a while yet.”
“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in. She wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind. “You going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.
“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on the bench—can’t we, George?”
“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He turned toward the door.
“Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see Celia. This is our new girl—Celia.”